From Generation . . . to Generation
by Silvi'N'Gildi
Summary: The last living digidestined looks back on his life and the deaths of his wife and all his friends.


**Disclaimer:** We don't own Digimon, we never did, and never . . . well maybe we will own it some day when the world is perfect. Then well be rich. Richer than all imaginable mwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha . . . ha. Not only that but it would be completely different. In fact it would be . . . oh right, **disclaimer : We don't own Digimon, the characters or the surroundings. Unless it's the characters are the one's we made up. Thank you and have a nice day.******

A/N: This is a Silvi only Fic. It is based on the Japanese version's terms, ages, and names. It includes characters from both season 1, 2, and the third movie. It's sad so be prepared, . . . and bring tissues.   
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**From Generation . . . To Generation**   
  
  
Slowly an elderly man walked out onto his front porch and sat down on his old rocking chair. The mid-afternoon sun beamed down, and he squinted his black 

eyes as he leaned back, and watched his great-grandchildren playing in the front yard with their tiny digimon partners. 

Each of them had received the same as he had first gotten - a Bukamon - But a part of the man was always thankful when each digimon evolved to a different 

form than his Gomamon. It made him feel proud and special. It made him feel that Gomamon was still, and would forever be, . . . his own. 

That's right, after seeing each other on and off for over 5 years, Gomamon and the other digimon had all decided to stay. Though the man felt old and frail, his 

digimon was as young and playful as ever. And, same as always, he was right there; playing with the youngsters.   
  
The man adjusted his glasses, and stared intently at the grass. His eyesight was poorer than it had ever been in his youth. Yet his glasses had lost their bulky 

appearance for a more stylish look - His wife; a mere child at the time had suggested it. And he'd kept it . . . for all these years - The grass reminded him of her. It 

swayed as softly with the breeze as her hair once had. It shimmered and shone as it reflected the sun's bright beams; and that was the perfect shade of green; . . . the 

exact shade of her crest. She'd been pure . . . sincere . . . and was too beautiful for words; inside and out - He missed her so much. 

She'd been gone for a year. It was the anniversary of her death that very day. It was also baby Mimi's first birthday. He stared at the babe. Her light brown 

hair had already begun to curl, and her swirly eyes were large and inquisitive. He smiled. He knew that she'd turn out just like her great-grandmother. 

He looked at his 2 sons. They were the ones changing little Mimi on the towel, in the grass. 

He blinked as the rays flashed on the swaying grass. It wasn't just because of the sun's glare that he had to squint. It had taken 3 operations to keep him from 

going completely blind. He adjusted his glasses, and smiled at his sons; reflections of his younger, more frantic and exciting life - Adventures . . . Proposals . . . 

Marriages . . . Kids . . . Diapers . . . School . . . On and on - It only seemed like yesterday. It was hard for him to believe that both his sons were already 

grandfathers!!! 

And his grandchildren were grown up too, with children of their own, no less! It was as mind-boggling as the first time he'd come to grips with it. 

He was awakened from his thoughts with a sweet voice, and a tingeing sensation where his left cheek had just been kissed. "Hi, Granddad." 

He turned. It had to be Christina . . . It was. His eldest granddaughter; his eldest son's only daughter; and the young mother of baby Mimi. Her long, blue hair   
  
flowed behind her, and her black eyes flashed kindly at her grandfather. He'd been so excited when she was born. She was the little girl he'd never had. Both he and 

Mimi had spoiled her rotten, but she'd maintained her sweetness and charm. "Hello, Christina, Dear," he nodded. His voice was the same as it had always been, but 

it cracked more than when he was young, and it sounded old, and worn; almost sad. Yet it also sounded calm and wiser than before. Still, it sounded weak, and so 

very; . . . very tired . . . 

Yet, still he smiled. He felt his eyelids grow heavy with the sun's warmth. He decided not to resist the temptation to rest his weary eyes. Was this the most 

relaxed he had ever been? 

He ran his wrinkled fingers; weary and over-flowing with arthritis, through his grey hair. Through the untamed mass of grey and white, there were still some 

light strands of blue remaining in his hair, eyebrows, and mustache. Opposite of himself, both his sons were showing signs of a few grey hairs on their heads. 

The 2 grown men were on their hands and knees now; gurgling and slobbering, while Mimi giggled over their antics and clapped her tiny, chubby hands 

together. In the background, 4 children were playing a game of tag with their Bukamon, in the garden. 

They wouldn't even have a garden if it hadn't been for his late wife. In their youth, the group had decided to move out of Tokyo . . . to the country.' It's a better 

place for raising children,' Mimi had suggested. Besides, Yamato had inherited his and Takeru's grandmother's home. What with Hikari pregnant, and Miyako with 

Ken's newborn, it had been the right thing to do. And he'd been looking forward to starting a family of his own . . . with Mimi. 

But, now-a-days, he found his house to be empty and very lonely at times. He loved Sunday's. It was on Sunday's that the family came to visit 'Grandpa's 

House', or so it had been dubbed by Christina. His sons and grandsons did random chores around the house for him, while the children all played.   
  
One of the kids; the oldest of the great-grandchildren; and Christina's son; a little 6-year-old boy was staring at him.   
  
  
"What is it, Mark? You want something?"   
  
But the boy said nothing. He flustered and looked away with embarrassment burning through his cheeks, . . . or was that just sunburn?   
  
"It's hot. Do you want some icecream? . . . I think there still might be some left-over birthday cake floating about."   
  
Mark still said nothing.   
  
"Oh, . . . I see. You're shy. Just like your old great-grandpa. Well, don't you be shy around me."   
  
"Ca- can I have a ride on the rocker chair next ?"   
  
"Why, sure thing. You can have it now."   
  
"Really ?"   
  
"Sure. I'd offer up a ride on my knee, but I'm that skinny after years of giving rides to your grandpas that my leg just might snap right off."   
  
Mark giggled, and ran up to him.   
  
"Then again . . . we could risk it," he smiled, scooped up the boy, and placed him on his knee.   
  
After a few minutes, the heat and the soothing rocking in his great- grandfather's arms, Mark cuddled closer, and yawned. "I love you."   
  
"Me too," the man smiled.   
  
Christina walked smoothly past, and scooped Mark away. "Time for a nap. Say, night Poppy."   
  
"Night," the man nodded. He knew how over-protective Christina was of her children; Mark and Mimi.   
  
He'd been protective of his kids too, so he couldn't say much. Gomamon had always been helpful. He always had been. Even now he was watching over the 

kids . . . in his own, special way. In other words, he was playing with them. It amazed him how loyal that digimon truly were. They'd all stayed by their partners' 

sides . . . until the end. 

The end. He hated to think of it; Hated to think that he was the last. The last of the original 8 Chosen Children. The last of the 12 Digidestined heroes and 

heroines (13, if you include Wallace). All those years of precaution; of eating right, and staying fit; All those years of being old reliable had it's effect on him. He was 

98 years old, . . . and the last. Sometimes he wished he had been the first; Wished he had, at least, gone before his beloved wife. He found it ironic; almost funny. 

He was the oldest. Besides, one would expect the last to be a leader, like Taichi. But in reality, Taichi had been the first. 

It had always been hard for Taichi Yagami. He bore the burden of leadership, and he lost his love to his best friend. When he met Katherine, and found love 

again, it was all ripped away from him when she died giving birth to their son. He'd been crushed, but found hope and courage in his little boy. But you see, when 

you work for the government, you tend to make allies, and enemies . . . some people just don't . . . want . . . peace. 

The thing was, that shortly after Taichi's assassination, Sora was found; dead in her and Yamato's bedroom. She'd over-dosed, and left a note stating her love 

for Taichi . . . she also left behind two children. 

At least neither had lived to see Hikari get sick. She was 38. Takeru and she were found; lying together on the hospital bed. Their hands were clasped together 

in an eternal bond. They had both died; one of pneumonia, and the other of heartbreak. 

Yamato had been devastated. Do had everyone else. He had a large home, and (being an astronaut once) had plenty of income. So he'd graciously taken in 

Takeru and Hikari's children; along with Taichi's son. At least he wouldn't be lonely. And the childrens' laughter filled the gap in his wounded heart that the loss of his 

best friend, wife, sister-in-law, and younger brother had caused. But he was never the same after that. He'd mumble to himself, and speak to someone who nobody 

else could see. It was unnerving, yet sad at the same time. When the kids grew up, he'd felt so alone. Still Gabumon stayed by his side. But one night, Yamato 

walked; in a daze, out into the middle of the road. He was in Tokyo at the time; after visiting the graveyard, Gabumon, like other digimon had done, returned sadly 

to the Digiworld. He understood that the one thing he couldn't protect Yamato from . . . was himself. 

Miyako and Ken were out driving when it happened. They were with their grandkids. When the crumpled mass of metal and shattered glass was ripped open 

. . . the only one alive was the baby; screeching in Miyako's arms. As with Takeru and Hikari; their hands were clasped together; Ken and Miyako's . . . 

Wallace, in his mid-life depression, had become young and stupid in his mind's eye. He bought a motorcycle. It crashed into a building after he'd veered to 

avoid an oncoming vehicle. But that wasn't how he'd died. He'd leapt from the motorcycle at the last moment. But the explosion had set fire to the house . . . the 

building . . . the orphanage. But the fire was high ablaze by the time he'd recovered from the shock of the fall and regained consciousness. Little did he know that all 

the children had already escaped, and were positioned at the back of the building. He searched aimlessly. He managed to find one 2-year-old straggler, and he got 

her out. But, tragically, they both perished from smoke inhalation. 

After so many years of pulling a cart around town, Daisuke had been the fittest 89-year-old around. If only he hadn't fallen pray to the cancer. 

Iori, died peacefully in his sleep at the age of 87; only 2 months after Daisuke had died. He'd been lonely, . . . but content. His wife had died, and his only 

daughter had moved away to have a family of her own. She'd always dreamed of moving to Zimbabwe, in Africa, and studying the wildcats there. Iori had never 

even met his grandkids,. . . but he'd seen lots of pictures. 

The next ripped the old man's heart out to think of. Mimi had died peacefully. She was old; 93 years old, and he'd been 97. She was sick, but still so beautiful. 

She'd said her goodbyes to the family and Palmon, and he'd stayed right there, by her side. She'd known she was dying, and yet she was so calm and serene. Her 

swirly, light brown eyes were warm, and her long, ripply hair was sprawled all about her fluffy, wight pillow limply. Her smile was forced, but maintained that air of 

sweetness about it. He remembered sitting at her bedside, and kissing her soft lips . . . one last time. As the hours passed, her rosy complection grew paler, and the 

grip of her hand in his loosened. He remembered her vivid description, of the bright light she saw. She was convinced that it was the Light; the unknown force which 

they'd been fighting on behalf of for all those years. She kept on whispering on excitedly about how beautiful it was, and then how she could see the silhouettes of 10 

angels. She went on about how they must be there to talk her to heaven; into the Light. Then she'd gasped, tapping his arm rapidly, 'Can't you see them ? Look ! 

Can't you see them ?!' She'd whimpered with joy. She described, in eerily vivid detail, all the others. ' It's them ! Yamato, and Sora, Takeru, and Hikari ! Even 

Taichi ! They're all here ! They're so young. Oh, you have to say you see them. I thought we'd lost them. But they're all here. Sora's holding Taichi's hand. They're 

okay. Oh . . .,' she'd sighed ; relaxing. All the excitement had drained her. 'Aren't you happy , now ? We don't have anything to be afraid of. Everything . . . will be 

alright,' she'd breathed 'Our friends . . . will take me home. I love you . . . see you . . . on the other side . . .' Then, she was gone. 

The man shook his memory. "One year ago today," he whispered under his breath. He hadn't actually seen anything in that bedroom, but had gone along with 

it; for Mimi's sake. He was confused, though. Mimi's eyes had been staring at the ceiling the whole time. She'd been blind as a bat for over a year, and a half the 

time she had alziemers. So, how could she have accounted all those details. 

The man had, over the next 6 months, discussed those thoughts with his best friend. Koushirou wasn't sure how to explain it. The genius usually always had 

answers, and not having a rational, solid explanation for something had somewhat unnerved the man. So, the subject was dropped, though hope that, somewhere 

out there, their friends were still around burned brightly in the two friends. 

Koushirou had died not even 4 months ago. Like Mimi, it was peaceful for him too. Koushirou, he knew, had hated to leave him. He'd know how he hated to 

be alone. After all, before he met all his Digidestine friends, he'd been geeky, unpopular, and lonely.   
  
But now he wasn't lonely at all. His family was surrounding him. Colourful birthday balloons floated all about. The sun was getting lower, but it was still just as 

bright, white-yellow, and warm. It made him even more weary. 

He leaned back in the chair which Mimi had bought in their youth. The same chair that he'd first rocked each of their sons to sleep in. 

"Hey ! Pops !" 

Pops ? Now that was a name he'd never have thought he'd hear himself be called. Especially not by his sons. 

"Yes ?" 

"You tired ?" 

"A little. And you'd be too, if you were an old guy." 

"What's that ? Some of Gomamon's humour actually rubbing off on you ?" 

"You'll know better when you're older." 

"We're getting there, Pops. We're getting there." 

He laughed. He was glad he did have Gomamon around. He was constant; solid; reliable. He'd never grow old. If he died, then he just come back. And, with 

Mimi's sensitivity, and his own sternness, he was glad his kids had, had a little humour in their lives. I mean, if you took everything seriously, the way he used to do, 

you'd have yourself driven insane. 

The sun beamed down on his face, and he took off his glasses as he closed his eyes. No, he'd never been this relaxed before. He blinked in surprise. He 

opened his eyes, but could only see the sun. He could still faintly hear the laughter of the children and digimon as they played together. There was finally peace and 

harmony. Taichi had not perished in vain. There was finally balance; what they had worked so hard to achieve. And he knew that their children would keep the 

balance . . . from generation . . . to generation. He fancied he saw Mimi in the sunlight. She was young, and fresh, and beautiful again. Suddenly, the weariness left 

him. He imagined the others; young and strong again . . . . .Or was he imagining ? He smiled . . . Joe had passed into forever.   


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Gildi's Two Cents: Well, yes it is a Silvi only fic, but, I'm the one who typed most of it. I'm the one who said hey Silvi why don't you put up "From Generation . . . To Generation." Not only that but I had the hard time uploading it. If you liked it, or not, or if you have any comments (no bad language please) review if we decided upon reviews we may wright what other twisted things that are on our minds (especially when we get together)   
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